


la copa de la vida

by allsovacant



Series: johnlock•actually [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Always1895 Johnlock Fic Prompt Challenge, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 00:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15983360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: In which John Watson decides to walk inside a coffee shop for the last time.





	la copa de la vida

**Author's Note:**

> The fic was inspired by the Bach original 'Air', but the one I listened to while writing this was the soundtrack cut from the Japanese movie 'Battle Royale'. It was on that movie where I first heard that classical music and made me fall in love with it.
> 
> "[Air on the G String](https://youtu.be/9ypgp8xH4Ms)" is August Wilhelmj's arrangement of the second movement in Johann Sebastian Bach's [ Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D major, BWV1068](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=GMkmQlfOJDk)
> 
> The arrangement differs from the original in that the part of the first violins is transposed down so that it can be played entirely on a violin's lowest string, i.e., the G string. It is played by a single violin (instead of by the first violins as a group). —Wikipedia

John woke up with that same burning fever, he had started to get used to, ever since he was invalided, resulting to an early retirement from the army. The fever broke, vanished and came back again like an old friend. It's either the fever that wakes him up in the middle of the night or the burning feeling from his scar. There are times that it was the pull of a tendon at the back of his thigh that robs him off of sleep. But most of the time it was the nightmares. The screams of his fellow soldiers, deafening exchange of gunshots, cold feeling of a hand beneath his warm ones and if the Fates would be in a mood, he feels the ghostly warmth of a firm muscle against him from a skin to skin contact.

 _Sod this._ He thought.

He stood up from the bedsit and walked towards the sink. He filled a mug with water and rinses his mouth thoroughly. His eyes then drifts on the floor where his last owned army mug lay in pieces—broken, like him.

Dear God, he feels so tired.

Running a hand over his sweat adorned face, he draws a breath as his gaze turns to the table drawer this time. Inside, the judge of his life and death was asleep, waiting for the time that he would wake it up finally. Its existence in a form of a gun, whispers to him everyday. And everyday, John wakes up to the single thought of making that _final_ decision, so this would be _finally_ over.

No more dwelling in the dark  
No more nightmares,  
No more of that _useless_ and _hopeless_ feeling,  
No more _what ifs,_  
No more bloody regrets,  
and no more broken coffee mugs ...

In the midst of these dark thoughts and realisation, John comes up with the most plausible decision—Or so he thought.

But before that, he needs coffee. A good cup of coffee.

_Right._

Nodding to himself, he went to the bathroom to shower and do his thing. Afterwards, dressed up in his old cream coloured jumper and blue jeans, he locks the door to his flat, drops the keys and some bills to his pocket and walks out to the damp and chilly morning atmosphere of London. His mind was already running on a mental list, planning on what kind of strong coffee to take, to _numb_ his nerves and be able to pull a trigger.

___________________

The Cup of Life is a coffee shop located at the corner of Montague St. It is the home of the most famous coffee blends that according to the shop's catch phrase: _'Once tasted, no regrets.'_

How ironic for John and his _plans._

The usual list of latte, espresso, and macchiato are all displayed on a human sized vertical chalkboard beside the glass doors. And another one on the other side for the wide range of other flavours of coffee available in the world market one could choose from. There are also available take away pastries and light meals.

Pushing half the door open, John was welcomed by the relaxing aroma of coffee beans and milk being steamed, grounded and frothed from the shop's kitchen. He surveyed the place with an eye of a hawk. Then he proceeds to the empty counter to wait for the server.

It was a nice place, to be honest. Yellow lights were dimmed to give it a 'feel at home' ambiance, with oriental plants and pots on every corner. Cozy, relaxing, peaceful, mesmerizing even. The wooden chairs and couches have a few occupants, some are couples, some are older couples and some are loners or they just don't have anyone with.

He closed his eyes as the sound of the violin coming from the shop's audio system occupied his thoughts. He wasn't that much fond of musical instruments although he wasn't new about the clarinet. When he was still a student in middle school, he tried learning music to get away from his father's endless preaching to his sister. But he was never able to connect to the music like the one who's playing right now. This classical piece that comes from the audio system, John was sure it's a Bach composition. He quite remember this one. They used to listen to it before in the army. When every night wounded soldiers would be wheeled to their tents. When these wounded jolts awake from the pain of being hit by a mortar, gunshots, shrapnel, or the pain of losing a leg, an arm or even sanity. The nights of mortal peril. But this piece was also the one that calms the wounded as they journey to the valley of fear. It was called  _Air._ But a bit slower. A different arrangement then? This particular one sounded like it was being played in real-time, like a _live concierto._ The way 'Air' was being played, it felt like it's reaching to his mind. Then just like that, all of the ill thoughts he was having earlier vanished. All of that heaviness he was feeling disappeared. It felt like being reborn. It's like being lulled back into sleep then waking up anew. And when the music came to the climax, he felt light, filled, complete, safe, _whole_ —

"Merci, Monsieur Holmes!"

Startled and a bit disappointed by a voice of a woman that sounded faraway, John snaps his eyes open. How long had it been since his eyes were closed? And why does it feel wet? Clumsily, John runs a palm over his face and was surprised that he was actually moved to tears.

"Monsieur?"

The voice of the woman earlier eventually draws him out of his own world. And he was even more disappointed when he noticed that the music was gone.

"Too bad it was so beautiful," He heard himself say. Then he hears the woman again.

"I beg your pardon, Sir ...?"

It was only then that John had taken a look at the woman. She was in fact pretty, pretty loud in her petit body. She's wearing a brown uniform topped by a beige-coloured apron and wearing a white toque. _A chef then?_

The woman smiles at him.

"Sorry—I was ... A bit off ... Caught off guard." He says to the chef, smiling eventually.

"Yes. I believe so," says the woman, nodding in agreement and asks again, So, what will you have?"

He was about to speak when a man with a deep baritone voice speaks for him.

"Espresso, I believe. No sugar." the voice drawls.

"Monsieur Holmes!" The woman exclaims, "Oh, I thought you've gone."

"Not without a potential flatmate Tilly, you know I needed one." John heard the man replied to the woman in front of them who was named Tilly.

_Are they acquainted? How long had they known each other? Wait. What? Why do I even bother?_

Then John notices the silver name plate just below the collar of the chef's uniform and there written in black bold letters, TILLY.

_Of course, silly you, John._

"Oh yes, you've mentioned." Tilly replies, before volleying a curious look at them.  
"So .... You two are ..." she trails of.

Which left John struggling from words for what reason, he doesn't have any idea.

"What? No, I—" He looks at the man beside him, only his gaze dropping on the posh sleeves the man was wearing. A purple long sleeved shirt and black slacks, and a designer black shoes.

_Well, he doesn't look like a... call boy to me—But..._

Then the tall bloke raises an eyebrow at him as if to say, _play along_. "If Mr. ...?" another eyebrow raised as if he was oblidged in a conspiracy, to say his name right away.

Well, no. Nope. He won't—but those eyes seemed to coax him for an answer. "John. John Watson." He replies in a daze.

_Bloody hell._

"Excellent." says the man sporting a bland smile, before turning back to the cashier. "Black, two sugars—the usual, Tilly. And an espresso for my—John. For John."

Tilly nods at the man, and smiles at him after. "Yes, Sir." She turns her back before them to prepare their orders—the man's orders.

"You might want to sit down, John. I'll be right behind you." says the man in that deep voice, while dropping his gaze down to John's ... _arse?_

 _Seriously?_ Unintentionally, his tongue darts out of his lower lip as he raises an eyebrow to the man who was now following the movement of his tongue.

_He's definitely flirting with me. So he's ...?_

With a mild huff he walks on a chair near the middle of the shop and sits on the one with his back facing the counter.

He's going mad.

After a minute or two, a warm hand touches his shoulder and for the first time in John's life he wasn't really sure what to do. Would he do karate on this man? He could easily flip this hand on his shoulder or would he hold those fingers—

_God, those fingers. Quite long eh?—_

He clears his throat, as the man leans down, setting his cup of coffee in front of him and John was caught in a whirlwind of sensation stirring inside him. The man smells good. So damn good. He smelled of fresh shower, a lavender bath, that man smell, and something unique, like it's the man's own smell. He dared to tilt his head to catch a glimpse of that long smooth pale-skinned neck. And John wondered if the man's skin being covered with those fit clothes was pale too.

Dangerously, John's desires merged with his thoughts from the past. When he was still in the army, when lights out meant, an hour or two of shared pleasure in between. John let his gaze fall back on the man's neck. And the urge, the want, the _need_ to bury his face in it felt too much. Feeling suddenly hot all over, John looked down at the swirling smoke from his cup, still aware of the man's warm hand on his shoulder, and the other hand entwined on his cup.

Without further thoughts John slowly enclosed his hand to the man's, grazing his thumb over the exposed wrist. He smiles triumphantly as he was rewarded of a low soft audible gasp just above his ear. The man straightens up on his back and staggers, trying to stand rather clumsily, as if he hasn't been touched.

John's smile turns into a grin. Well he could work with that.

He clears his throat as he regards the man, "So," he starts, looking up at the tall bloke beside him. And just like that, time just stopped. Was the earth still moving? He thought. Because he felt like it stopped too.

John was now looking dreamily at the man. A tall man, with a mop of dark raven curls. The thought of having his fingers on them stirred something inside him. Plush sensual lips follows the contour of the man's mouth. How would it taste? And god those eyes, he could look at them and be lost in its universe forever.

Then the man opens his sensual mouth, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John felt his chest tighten. "S-Sorry, what?"

"You heard me, which was it?" The man replies blandly, an octave lower.

_Bloody hell, that voice should be illegal._

"Afghanistan—Sorry— _how_ did you know that?" he says, curiosity mixed with irritation.

"Elementary," the man quips.

"Are you fucking with me?" He asks in a serious voice. Earlier he felt like worshipping a god in front of him but now he felt like strangling the man's neck.

The man's eyes widens, cheeks colouring a shade of red, before composing himself once more.  
"We could ... talk about ... that?" says the man in a whisper.

Confused, John thought of what he had said.  
He swore under his breath.

"No. Wait—what is it— _Who_ are _you_ really? Because I feel like I'm confusing you to someone else. Earlier, you were clearly flirting with me and now you sounded like a stalker or some secret agent out of a Bond movie.

"Oh?" The man breathes innocently, and John smiles softly because it looked adorable.

Then the man snorts, "Bond? Seriously? I'm a detective, John. A consulting detective, the only one in the world. I've invented the job."

"Wow. Really? So you're not—" He asks a bit embarassed of what he was thinking earlier.

The man's eyes narrows before him, confusion reflected in their stormy hues.  
"What?"

John sighs, " _Nothing._ " he adds, firmly. "And well, the police don't consult _amateurs_."

He watches in awe as the man's face turned into a 'Bitch you challenging me-look' and for the next ten minutes, the facts of his life has been laid before him. Starting from his army days, to his sister Harriet, and her alcoholic addiction, which the man misses a bit, because he thought it was a brother, through him looking for a flatshare.

By the time the man was finished, John was left staring blankly to nothing with his mouth slightly open. And only when the man came back sitting across the opposite chair with a new cup of coffee for him that he was able to shut his mouth and swallow a lump in his throat due to mild emabrassment. Because apparently, he was staring too long that his coffee had gone cold.

"You're right." John heard the man say.

"I'm... right?" He says slowly.  
"Right about what?"

The man regards him with a genuine smile, "The police don't consult amateurs."

The remark made him feel like laughing but instead, he stares at the man and say, "You said about me, as a potential flatmate? Your flatmate?"

The man leans over the table, hands entwined on his own cup, still looking at him as he hums in response.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking—"

"Oh it's you!" He exclaims suddenly, feeling embarassed as the man's eyes narrows again, "Earlier? When I just got in. There was a soulful playing going on—"

"Soulful?" asks the man in pure curiosity, "that's what you think of me? My... playing?"

"Yea, it was. And then _you_ telling me everything what you saw in me—"

"It's called deduction, John." the man interrupts, "I was merely observing. Child's play." says the man as if it was as simple as that. And god, this man should stop saying his name in _that_ tone of voice.

"Oh," was all John could say, "Right. Good deduction. And fantastic, on the violin. _Wow._ It's like you're _one_ with the _instrument._ Like you're _one_ with the _music._ Like _you're_ the music." John says as he stares to the man's eyes. He said it as he meant it. He watches as the man across him looks down on his own cup, biting his lower lip, blush spreading on those pale cheeks, like a rose in full bloom.

Now, _that_ , was really beautiful. John thought. A new wave of affection flooding his chest.

He clears his throat and was about to ask about the man's name when the man leans over the table and drops a quick kiss on his forehead without a word.

John was so stunned, he didn't get to react.

"You have my number," says the man, after a while.

John watches as the tall bloke pushed himself off the chair and stands.

"No. I don't—" He counters. The man takes a last sip of his cup before looking down at John then to the cup in front of him and smirks, eyes narrowing to a slit.

"Mm. Your cup begs to differ, _John,"_ says the man in a voice that John thought had pitched even lower. He dares to look at the man, his eyes showing a great deal of desire he's made sure of it.

But the tall man just motioned into his hands making John look down at it. And for the first time in six months, he laughed. The surprise boom in his chest definitely adds some colouring to his cheeks. He shook his head and looks up again only to see the man, now, walking gracefully and confidently towards the cafe's door and out in the street while raising a hand to hail a cab.

His gaze drops to the tall man's arse.

 _What a posh pompous arse—_ John thought.

And was even more surprised to witness the man whirl to a half-turn only to wink at him before letting himself inside the cab.

 _And one can't say no. Literally._ John muses.

That evening, John Watson finds himself standing in front of a black door of a two storey apartment—with two cups of coffee in a holder clutched by his hand. One was black, with two sugars while the other was an empty cup with words clumsily scribbled around it that says: '221 Baker Street, 7PM—ask for Sherlock Holmes,'

_If for the sake of last time, why not?_

John thought as he pushed the doorbell. A minute later, an old woman with a kind smile lets him in.

Whatever happens after this, his judgement day could wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed and rushed entry for my favourite prompt.  
>   
> I hope you'd find Bach's Air, a good classic to listen to and thank _you_ for reading—and I hope you'll find it amusing amidst its imperfection. Merci, mon amour. ;)


End file.
